


a life that's so demanding

by myeyesarenotblue



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Panic Attacks, Whumptober 2020, no beta we die like ben, this is literally just the first time diego gets put in a straitjacket in the asylum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26768029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myeyesarenotblue/pseuds/myeyesarenotblue
Summary: Diego's in a straitjacket.No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIMEWaking Up Restrained| Shackled | Hanging
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951162
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	a life that's so demanding

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing whumptober y'all!!!! 
> 
> Hi, hello, I'm late for the first day bc I literally decided I wanted to do this like half an hour ago, so like,,,, yeah. I've never done an event like this so PLEASE bear with me and my tendency to get distracted with other works, I'll do my best not to abandon this, get ready for pain and suffering, it'll be fun. <3 <3 <3
> 
> edit: nvm i give up :)

Diego doesn’t quite understand what’s going on for a couple seconds- minutes, really. 

One moment he’s in group therapy, next to some uptight shrink and that Lila chick that keeps following him around everywhere, and he’s shouting left and right, begging to be released already, and he  _ knows _ he’s pushing his luck, he  _ knows _ he’s being uncooperative and rude and violent and everything dear old dad always told him he was, and- 

And the next- 

The next the shrink’s shouting, too, and suddenly there’s a nurse by his side, and she’s got a goddamned needle in her hand, and Diego freezes, and time freezes, and- 

And he wakes in a padded room, groggy, and dizzy, and defeated. 

It’s like it happens in slow motion. 

Or- 

Or maybe whatever the hell was in that needle makes Diego feel like time doesn’t exist, like seconds and minutes and hours bleed into each other and nothing matters at all. 

He wakes up, and he has no idea what’s happening. 

He’s lying on his stomach. 

Everything around him feels soft- uncomfortably so, like he’s drowning and there’s no land to step on. He feels smothered. Hot. He can’t breathe properly. His hair starting to get a little too long and it sticks to his skin with cold sweat, pokes one of his eyes whenever he tries to move and makes it water, blurs his vision. 

He really has no idea what’s happening. 

He tries to stand up- to straighten up a bit and maybe sit down until the nausea and the dizziness and the lethargy pass or at least turn into something more manageable. He tries to stand up, to push into his hands and knees and roll over and maybe take a proper look at wherever the hell he is, but- 

But he can’t. 

He finds that he can’t. 

His arms- 

They’re- 

Diego takes breath, tells himself not to panic because he knows for a fact panicking only ever makes thing worse and he’s not really in a position to be making dumb choices. 

He tries moving again, smaller movements this time, experimental. 

And- 

Yeah, yeah, his arms are  _ definitely _ restrained. 

They’re stretched across his body and into his back, like he’s fucking hugging himself or something, and it’s not really an uncomfortable position at all, and nothing is digging into his skin, and the thing that’s smothering him feels soft and warm and thick, and- 

Diego’s next breath comes out ragged, awfully shaky. 

He really tries to stand up this time, but without his arms his balance is completely inexistent and he really has no fucking idea what was in that needle but he feels like he’s drunk or maybe worse, like he’s tired, like he’s worn, like all of his thoughts are tangled and nothing makes sense, like he doesn’t want to _ fucking be here.  _

He falls on his face. 

There’s no nice way to put it. 

He stumbles, and falls on his face. 

The floor is padded but it still hurts like a bitch, and Diego decides he simply does not like its shrieking white color, its mysterious stains. 

He immediately tries again, doesn’t make it very far before he’s falling all over again, and so he tries  _ again _ , and  _ again _ , and  _ again _ , until it occurs to him maybe he can’t fucking stand up just like that, so he rolls onto his back and shimmies pathetically side to side until he collides with a wall and leans into it, uses it for leverage until he manages to more or less sit upright. 

He’s panting by the time he’s done, his heart going a mile a minute. 

His head hurts. 

His stomach hurts. 

He can’t think, he can’t breathe, he wants to throw up so badly he’s not all that sure he’ll be able to hold it if he keeps moving. 

His arms are restrained. 

There’s no rope, no chains, no tape, just a giant white thing enveloping him and swallowing him whole, restricting his movements. 

His in a white, padded room. 

He’s also in a mental asylum. 

It- 

It comes to him slowly, and when it does, it still takes him another couple seconds to fully process it, to understand its implications. 

He’s in a straitjacket. 

He’s been put in a straitjacket, in a padded cell, in a mental asylum, because he was too much of an idiot not get himself arrested the second he made it to the sixties, and- 

And it dawns on him, that this is the fucking sixties, and he’s no expert but he’s pretty sure psychiatric hospitals where shit back then, and- 

This is it, isn’t it? 

This is solitary confinement. 

This is a thing they’re allowed to do, to pump him full of drugs and tie him up and toss him in a cell, and that’s just standard procedure, isn't it? That’s how it works. It’s a fucking- treatment plan, or whatever, to leave him alone and forget about him for days on end. 

The thought is terrifying. 

It’s just plain terrifying. 

He can’t move, and he can’t breathe properly, and he’s dizzy, and he’s groggy, and he’s nauseous, and everywhere he looks everything’s strikingly white, and- and he can’t  _ move _ . He can’t  _ move _ . He tries to move, but he can’t, and so he tries again, but he  _ can’t _ , and- 

And no matter how long roughly and sharply he tugs on the goddamned straitjacket he still can’t fucking move, and his shoulders start shrieking at him to stop, and everything hurts, and he can’t move, and- 

Suddenly, suddenly, the levity of the situation really strikes him. 

His siblings are most likely dead. 

Every last one of them. 

Mom is dead. 

Pogo is dead. 

Eudora is dead. 

The closest thing he has to a friend is Lila, and she’s nice, and she’s sweet, and she’s weird as fuck, and Diego’s so fucking thankful they got thrown into the same loony bin at the exact same time, but still, she’s not his siblings, she’s not his family. 

He’s stuck in an unknown time, alone. 

He’s alone. 

Even if he somehow manages to escape or be released, he’ll still be alone. 

Everyone’s dead, and he will always be alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> follow me on tumblr [@myeyesarenotblue](https://myeyesarenotblue.tumblr.com/)


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